


Je suis Tybalt

by ThereAreWorseFics



Category: Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:10:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1545389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereAreWorseFics/pseuds/ThereAreWorseFics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songfic concerning the French musical's Tybalt. Not Beta'd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je suis Tybalt

_Être hait et trahi_

He knew The Word. It was spoken between servants in the kitchen. Hissed between the teeth of his many cousins. Shouted from the throat of his Uncle. Ripped out as a sob from his Aunt. It stifled the household for many years just like the family tomb did his father.

_Des amis? Non, pas d'ami_

No matter how hard he tried, he always ended up trading blows and insults with other children. At first it would be fine. They'd play a game. But always, _always_ it went wrong somewhere, and he would have to defend his _Capulet_ honour, even at tender age.

_Je suis seul, tant pis!_

He learned that The Word got along with the knife in his chest. Many times, after restless nights spent prowling the household, he would put the hand over his heart, expecting to see the red seeping from the wound. There was no wound, however. And there won't be for a long time.

_Et ceux qui veulent être aimés à tout prix_

The boy his age, prince Escalus' cousin followed him for a while, when the grass in spring reached their waists. He would talk and talk, and Tybalt would not make a sound. Eventually, the boy grew tired of silence, and the talk became a barb. Barb became an insult. Insult became a blow. And, somewhere along the line, it will become steel in flesh.

_Je les méprise, je les envie_

He refused to beg. If his uncle never touched him except when it came as a cuff around the ears, he would be content. If his aunt would merely give her hand for him to kiss in respect, he would be content. If any cousin would dare pat him on the back, he would be content. He would not ask of what he could not be given. Did not deserve. He refused to beg.

_Y'a que dans cette maison que j'ai le cœur tendre_

His aunt had a baby. He hated it. It kicked and screamed and made every night miserable. It was red in the face and clearly too fragile. When he had enough, he went into its room to shut it up. He stood as much as he could on his toes and reached out with his hand to shake some sense into it. Many years later, he'd like to think that he began to love Juliet the moment she took his hand and went into a blissful sleep.

_Je n'ai que ce blason à défendre_

Verona quickly learned that if you crossed a Capulet, you would have an enraged Tybalt on your hands. Men didn't dare approach his female cousins, not that it stopped them from ogling them. He spent hours training. He spent hours walking the streets escorting one of his household on errands, just so they would not be caught unawares. Only lowly servants and cousins got into fights with Montagues, and Tybalt never let those of higher status interfere. He was there to defend Capulet honour.

_Tybalt! Je suis Tybalt!_

He had many names. Prince of cats. Ratcatcher. Duelist. Cousin. Nephew. Young man. He was so used to hearing them that when his uncle impatiently turned him around, he realised he has been called by his name for the last few seconds. It's not that no one said his name, it was just that Juliet _always_ called him Tybalt. It felt wrong, coming from someone else's lips.

_On me déteste, on me craint  
Mais au moins je suis quelqu'un!_

What did Mercutio have? A lot, Tybalt had to admit. Noble birth, high status, quick wit and a quick draw of a sword. He also had as much hate for him as any Montague. It was as if he could always pinpoint him from a street away and come hurling with jabs. But in the end, he was not a king of the world, but a failed poet. And Tybalt was what he always was. Capulet's vengeance.

_Tybalt! Je suis Tybalt!_

He was beside himself of anger. Not only was Romeo Montague a coward, but thrice damned Mercutio had to insult him in a way he could not refuse, even though he turned to leave. He hated hearing his name from his childhood's foe mouth. He hated that it was only said in contempt.

_Je suis l'homme aux deux visages_

For someone whose rage got better of him almost everyday, he had many secrets. He loved Juliet, the only light in his life. He hated himself for it. He hated himself for what he was, because in the moment his sword pierced flesh, he realised that, after all, being at least _something_ was not what he _could_ have been.

_Mais quand je pleure c'est de rage_

He was angry. He has killed. He killed Mercutio and somehow killed himself. If the fool hadn't pushed, he'd still throw barbs at Tybalt. He wouldn't be there in the embrace of his friend, still like he never was, and Tybalt would not feel the sting in his eyes. If he hadn't been pushing him all this time... If... If only... If only...

_Tybalt! Je suis Tybalt!  
On me déteste, on me craint_

And there was Romeo, the boy, no, man Juliet loved, screaming his name. It didn't matter. He had killed. He was as good as dead. There would be no exile for the murderer of Prince's kin. He fulfilled his purpose, and Juliet needed a knight, like Romeo, not a monster Tybalt was. He didn't raise his blade to meet his opponents.

_Mais moi, je ne sens plus rien_


End file.
